Eric Flint's Blog, page 186

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 14

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 14

The prince doubled over on his cushion, laughing hard and loud.

“Yes, Begum Sahib. Our family history claims that Emperor Babur took for one of his ten wives the daughter of one of our greatest chiefs, a beauty named Bibi Mubarika. Thus, he and his army had the way opened for them through the Khyber.”

“Don’t let my little brother — or Father’s generals — hear you say that,” Dara said between fits of laughter.

A delicate sniff from beyond the jali. “Aurangzeb will not hear it from me, Dara.”

Hoping to return the conversation to safer ground, Salim ventured: “It is that marriage, in a roundabout way, which brings me to serve the emperor, Begum Sahib.”

Dara gestured at his guest. “The amir Salim is also a fellow student of Mian Mir’s teachings, sister.”

Salim nodded. “The saint is wise, and asked me to accompany Baram Kahn on his mission.”

Dara looked at the jali. When there was nothing further from Begum Sahib, he gestured Salim to continue.

“Nur Jahan’s man, Baram Kahn, is dead. Poisoned by someone in the kingdom of Thuringia. It was done so that he would not bring back word of the future and what happens to this land.”

Agra, Red Fort, The Harem

“Thank you, Shehzada Dara Shikoh,” Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz said with a bow. The man turned and faced the jali, bowing nearly as low as he had for Dara.

She willfully turned away from the impure thoughts that rose up as she looked into the man’s pale green eyes, aided by the fact that he could not see her strong reaction.

Nadira, sitting beside her, nudged her with an elbow.

She looked at her sister in law. A great beauty, and cousin through their mothers, Nadira was also a friend to Jahanara. When Mother died, Jahanara had been left with the responsibility of planning Dara’s marriage celebrations, during which she had come to know and appreciate the kind and gentle spirit of her sister-to-be. Such spirit was not common in the harems of powerful men.

Nadira bent close, whispering, not unkindly, in her ear: “Do not make your brother kill the honorable — and very handsome — amir for loving what he cannot have, Begum Sahib.”

Jahanara winced.

Obeisance paid, Salim departed with a horseman’s rolling gait.

The Princess of Princesses tried — and failed — to avert her gaze from his strong, broad back.

Nadira giggled softly, shaking her head.

Dara, meanwhile, picked up one of the books the amir had left behind and muttered, “Fascinating.”

Fingers twitching with the desire to read them for herself, she cautioned him: “And dangerous, brother.”

He glanced at the jali, frowned, “Well, of course.”

“If it is true, how do we present this information to father?”

“If?”

“Well, I haven’t seen the images he gave, and his story beggars belief.”

Dara, more excited than she had seen him since his wedding day, picked up the books and two flat pieces of paper Salim had called “photographs” and walked toward the jali. One of his eunuchs opened the concealed portal, ensuring his master did not have to slow. A few more strides and Dara was standing over his wife and sister.

He handed Jahanara the image. It was on a piece of paper, glossy on one side, no bigger than a large man’s hand. The subject within was of a large white-marble building of enormous size and great beauty, surrounded on all four sides by matching minarets with a great giant onion of a dome in the middle. Lettering in the latin alphabet, inked in lurid red, lined the top of the image.

Nadira, leaning to look over her shoulder, asked, “What did he say this reads?”

“Greetings from the Taj Mahal! Greatest of The Seven Wonders of the World!” Dara answered from memory, smiling fondly at his wife. “They even have the coloring of the letters the correct red, to honor the colors of the family war-tent.”

“But what –”

“It is a corruption of mother’s title,” Dara answered her question before it was fully voiced.

Nadira even scowled prettily, “Mumtaz Mahal becomes Taj Mahal? How does this happen?”

“I presume it happens after near four hundred years and across several languages, my love.”

“But how do you know it’s accurate, light of my heart?”

“Father’s plans are set and construction begun.” He tapped the photograph. “Mother’s tomb will look like this, though you cannot see the Moonlit Garden across the river.”

Tears filled Jahanara’s eyes. To think her father’s grief had carried across the centuries and thousands of kos to peoples so distant caused her heart to ache — not for her father, but for her own fate. She would, as a daughter of her house, never marry, never know the heat of a love that would make a man like her father grieve so terribly he would build a monument to their love that would last through the ages.

She lowered her head, shamed by the depth of self-pity she felt. It seemed extraordinarily sinful in the face of what the amir had told them the future histories contained: that two of her brothers would be executed and her father left to wither and die, while Aurangzeb expended the strength of the empire in bloody attempts to suppress the Hindu religion and conquer the remainder of the sub-continent.

Fear and concern for the future of her family rode self-pity and shame down under flashing hooves. Jahanara cleared her throat. “I am willing to believe the amir, but how do we tell Father?”

“Don’t you mean what?”

“No, I mean how.”

Dara shrugged. “I didn’t think he needed to –”

She interrupted: “Father will not be inclined to overlook anything less than full disclosure, Dara. The amir told us that the remainder of Baram Kahn’s followers should return within the month.” She gestured at the books, “and that they have more of these.”

“Yes, but –”

She held up a hand. “Father will find out if we withhold information — Nur Jahan will make sure of it — first Aurangzeb, and then Father, will be told what we have learned today.”

Dara sighed so deeply his wife laid a hand on his arm. “I still hold hope that we might yet get Aurangzeb to abandon his religious bigotry and open his heart to Mian Mir’s teachings.”

“An admirable — even saintly — hope, Dara. Unfortunately, there are far fewer saints in the world than sinners.”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 01

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 01

Darkship Revenge

Sarah A. Hoyt

Beginning And End

Battle Born

I never wanted to be a mother. I always get what I don’t want.

My name is Athena Hera Sinistra.  I was meant to be the woman without a mother, the mother of a race of gods. Bioengineered madmen created me, assembled me protein by protein, to be the Eve of a new race, the start of a new humanity.

It didn’t work out that way.

But I did become a mother.  Suddenly.  By surprise.

Alright, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but the thing is I had no idea how easy making a human being was.  My foster mother disappeared when I was six, and my so called father, the old bastard in whose image I’d been made, was never interested in forming my mind, only in keeping my body healthy.  Sure, I’d got the usual lectures.  Which I’d ignored.  And nothing had happened even when I ignored them.

There were reasons for that, of course. Most of my lovers were genetically incompatible.  And for those who weren’t, I’m sure my father had kept me on contraceptive implant, perhaps installed at my annual exams.  Preserved free of taint until he was ready to begin the breeding program.

I hadn’t noticed. I thought it was lucky I never caught.

I’d found out I was pregnant while I, my husband and our friends, were under siege in Eden, suspected of treason or worse.  Even after we were freed and proven innocent, I didn’t want my child to be born in a place where it seemed like every hand was against us, and everyone suspected us of something awful. And I didn’t want to stay in Eden longer than absolutely necessary.

So, when Kit said he wanted to go on a powerpod collecting trip, from our hidden colony of Eden to Earth orbit, three months away, I’d said yes.  I hadn’t told him I was pregnant either, because then he wouldn’t go.  I knew men had a near-superstitious fear of birth and babies.  But I figured if primitive humans could give birth without assistance, surely I, who had been bio-enhanced to be stronger, faster, smarter, would have no trouble.

I’d give birth in our Darkship, the Cathouse.

It would be me, and Kit, and we’d have three months to get used to being parents before we came back to Eden.  By which time, hopefully, things in Eden would be better too.

Did I mention that things never happen the way I expect them to?

My child was born during a battle.  A strange battle started when an unknown ship, of an unknown, lithe design, attacked the Cathouse, the darkship my husband, Kit, and I flew to steal powerpods from Earth orbit to power Kit’s native colony of Eden.

We were three days from the powertrees in Earth orbit.  We didn’t even see the other ship before it fired on us.

One moment we were under-power, still too far away from possible near-earth traffic for either of us to man our stations, the other moment our alarms were blaring that our ship was damaged.

I abandoned the reader where I’d been searching for instructions on how to give birth and Kit came running out of the exercise room.

And we fought our attacker with all we had.  It wasn’t much.

The Cathouse was ill equipped for battle.  It only had weapons at all – energy cannons mounted on the surface – because Earth had recently started trying to capture ships from Eden colony when they came to collect powerpods.  And some of us had finally decided it was better to fight than to just commit suicide in order to avoid interrogation.

But our weapons were small and relatively ineffective. Built to discourage rather than to destroy.  Built to allow us to fire a warning shot and run away. Built to save on weight and therefore fuel and leave more space on the ship for the harvested powerpods.  But also built not to create such outrage at us that Earth dropped everything to find and destroy us.

Before the alarms had stopped sounding, Kit and I were at our battle stations, also known as our powerpod collecting stations and also our landing stations.  They were all the same, just two rooms on opposite ends of the spherical ship, where all the navigation and piloting took place.  One was for the navigator and one for the pilot.  I was clicking the lock on my belt, when I felt Kit’s baffled shock. I felt it because, to avoid detection, pilot and Nav from Kit’s world had a form of telepathic communication.  It was engineered into them for the purpose, and it had been engineered into me for completely different reasons, which didn’t matter, because it still worked.

To my wordless question, he returned the image he could see on his screens. Kit’s eyes had been enhanced to be able to pilot in near-perfect dark.   He could see what I couldn’t.  His screen which would look dark to me, showed him a silver ship: triangle-shaped, but with added flips to the wings.

I was already calculating coordinates in my head, to target our defensive shot, and rattled them off to Kit via mind link.  My normal work aboard was to calculate coordinates and maneuvers for Kit to pilot without lights in the tight confines of the powertrees, where any wrong move could bring you in contact with a ripe powerpod and to sudden, explosive death.

But the ability to calculate coordinates on the fly and to communicate them to my husband served us well in this too.  He spun the Cathouse to aim our weapons at the attacker, and let fly with a blast of power.

Our opponent… flipped, like a falling leaf twirling in an impossible wind. I guessed the purpose of the maneuver and directed Kit to move us sharply down, which he did, avoiding the return blast, which flew by above us.

Before Kit was done plunging, I’d directed him to fire again.

We did and targeting light from our weapons played across the other ship which seemed to me to falter for a moment.

I remembered some genius of the twenty first century had written a treatise on how space battles were impossible, because ships could always evade other ships in three dimensions.  It hadn’t occurred to said genius that in that case, as in air battles between airplanes, one ship could follow the other.

I just thought we should follow the ship and —

A sharp pain cut through my middle.  It hurt almost as badly as when I’d got stabbed in the gut in a back-alley fight when I was twelve. Almost as bad as when I’d crashed my anti-gravity wand – broom in slang – against a wall when I was fourteen.

For a moment I lost breath and the ability to focus.  Thena? Kit screamed in my mind.

We got hit.  The ship shook.  Our sensors started blaring.

I sat, frozen, not because I was afraid this ship would destroy us.  I was afraid of that too, but mostly I was shocked I’d wet myself.  I’d never wet myself in any of the fights I’d got into, in mental hospitals and military camps, not even when my father had sent my very young self to them in hopes of taming me.

And then pain rippled through me again, thought-stopping.  I’d read something —

Kit, Kit, I think the baby is coming. And then, by an effort of will, I sent coordinates.  Shoot at 45-26-10.

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 01

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 01

THE GODS OF SAGITTARIUS

ERIC FLINT, MIKE RESNICK

CHAPTER 1

Russ Tabor pulled a thin smokeless cigar out of his pocket, lit it, took a puff, stalked around the outer office, tossed it in a trash atomizer, kept walking, pulled another cigar out, looked at it, and threw it out without even lighting it.

He stared at the lens above the door, growled at it, and finally sat down.

A female’s voice spoke up. “Please rise and approach me, Mr. Tabor.”

He looked around, couldn’t see any women or indeed any living beings. Then he saw that the lens was glowing, and he walked over and stood before it.

“Identifying retina,” said the emotionless voice. “Check. Identifying bone structure. Check.” There was a brief pause. “You have two cavities in your lower right back molar.”

“Do I complain about the scratch you have across the top of whatever the hell you are?” he shot back.

“I was informing, not complaining.”

“I’ll live,” he muttered.

“I notice a bead of sweat on your forehead,” continued the voice. “Please touch your forefinger to it, and then touch the glowing panel in front of you.”

“With which hand?” he asked sardonically.

“Either.”

“You’re quite sure? I’ve been told on excellent authority that my right hand is much lovelier.”

“Please, Mr. Tabor, just do as I ask.”

He run a finger across his forehead and brought it to the panel.

“Your DNA checks,” announced the voice.

“What a surprise,” said Tabor.

“Had you some reason to think it would not match?” asked the voice.

“Shut up and let me through.”

There was silence for perhaps ten seconds. Then the door slid into the wall. “You may enter, Mr. Tabor.”

Tabor stormed into the large, elegant, expensively-furnished office, where a middle-aged man with thinning red hair sat at a desk, staring at him.

“What the hell is this about, as if I didn’t know?” demanded Tabor.

“Well, as long as you know, we have nothing to discuss,” said Philip Montrose with an amused smile.

“Fuck you!” snapped Tabor. “You pulled me off an important assignment to guard a pompous ass who’s crazy as a loon!”

“Whatever that may be,” responded Montrose.

“Why me, damn it?” continued Tabor. “I spent months making connections, finding out how to unearth information from that whole goddamned planetary conglomerate, and now you pull me off before we can bring the whole house of cards down.”

“Our lawyers say you’ve supplied them with enough information to put the cartel away for decades.”

“I know! But I want to be there! I want to testify in court, and watch their faces when I do.”

“It’s all pro forma,” answered Montrose. “They’re as good as convicted. Why dance on their graves?”

“I put up with their shit for almost a year while I was working my way up through their organization,” said Tabor. “I want to dance on those bastards’ graves.”

Montrose shook his head. “That job’s done. Besides, it was just a sideshow. We’re in the protection business, and you just happened to stumble across the biggest fraud of the year. Congratulations, but it’s history. I’ve got a new one for you.”

“Give it to the goddamned military,” snarled Tabor. “He’s working for the government, isn’t he?”

“Not anymore.”

“They realized they were wasting their time and money.”

“Actually,” said Montrose, “he quit them.” Tabor arched an eyebrow. “Evidently he made some demands they wouldn’t accept, to he decided to go private.”

Tabor shrugged. “Who cares why he did it? Let’s get back to my pending resignation.”

“Oh, shut up, Russ,” said Montrose irritably. “Do you have to be like this every single time I give you a new assignment?”

“Do you have to give me one shit job after another?” Tabor shot back.

“Look,” said Montrose, trying to sound more reasonable than he felt whenever he argued with Tabor, “we’re not government, we’re not police, we’re not military. We’re mostly security, whatever that entails, and we do what we’re paid for. And it’s the nature of the beast that if no overpaid and overstaffed and under skilled official organization wants a job, it’ll be just the kind that you bitch like hell about.” He exhaled deeply. “But it’s also the kind you happen to be good at.”

“Each one is worse than the last.”

“You think you can make more money working for the planetary government or the police, go ahead,” said Montrose. “I’m through arguing.”

Tabor scowled. “You know I’ll take it if I can’t talk you out of it.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“I still want to know why,” continued Tabor. “He’s a total flake. Half his theories have gotten him laughed out of every position he’s ever held.”

“Yeah, and two of his theories have won him the Sagittarius Prize.” Montrose grimaced. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s a flake, at least on odd-numbered days . . . but no one else has ever won two Prizes.”

“I did a little research when I saw that he quit the government and was going private, because somehow I knew you’d be coming to me,” said Tabor. “Along with winning two Prizes, he’s been fired by three universities, one branch of the government, and one top-level research firm.”

“All the more reason why he might need some protection,” replied Montrose with a smile.

“I can’t protect him from being fired or making a fool of himself,” said Tabor. “And as far as I know, no one’s ever tried to kill or harm him.”

“A flake like that,” said Montrose. “Give ’em time. They will.”

“What’s he working on now?”

Montrose shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. You’ll be meeting him for dinner. You can ask him then.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be hungry.”

“Good! You’ll be a cheap date.”

“So why did he quit — or did he?” asked Tabor.

“Ask him at dinner.”

Tabor scowled. “So you set up a dinner in advance. And I assume he knows where we’re meeting.”

Montrose nodded. “No sense having him starve to death looking into the window of every restaurant in town — especially since he doesn’t know what you look like.”

“Earth-type food, or is he as looney about his meals as he is with his theories?”

“I know your tastes,” said Montrose. “You’ll be dining at the Fatted Calf, about a kilometer from here. It was the least I could do for you.”

“One of these days why not consider doing the most you can for me?”

“Of course,” agreed Montrose, looking down at his computer to determine his next order of business.

“When hell freezes over,” muttered Tabor, getting up and walking to the door. He half hoped it wouldn’t open so he could pull one of his weapons and turn it to rubble, but it almost seemed to sense that and opened before he’d gone two steps.

***

The Fatted Calf had never served a calf (or a cow) in its three-decade existence. The fees for importing such animals, plus the import duties, would have made a typical meal the equivalent of a week’s pay for the upscale diners who frequented the place. But the locally-grown mutated beef was prepared much as meat was prepared in Earth’s better restaurants. And if the spices weren’t quite what was used on Earth, they were close enough so that no one complained (and the fact that most of the diners had never set foot on Earth didn’t hurt either).

Tabor entered the restaurant, waved the android headwaiter off, surveyed the tables and recognized his dinner partner from the holos he had seen. He walked over and sat down opposite him at the table.

“Do I know you?” asked the older man mildly.

“You will,” replied Tabor. “I’m going to be your second skin for . . .” He shrugged. “For however long it takes.”

“Ah!” said the man, his face lighting up. “You are my new servant.”

Tabor shook his head. “No, sir, I am not your servant.”

The man frowned in confusion. “Then why are you sitting here?”

“I am your protector,” he said. “I am no one’s servant.”

“Semantics,” said the man with a shrug.

“Facts,” replied Tabor. “I am Russell Tabor, and you are Rupert Medawar Narayan Shenoy. You can call me Russ. What do I call you?”

“Lord Shenoy,” was the answer.

“Right,” said Tabor. “Rupert it is.”

Shenoy stared at Tabor for a long minute. “I don’t think I like you very much.”

Tabor shrugged. “Okay,” he replied. “Fire me.”

Shenoy shook his head. “No,” he said at last. “You’re the best in the business.”

“Did Montrose tell you that?”

“No,” answered Shenoy, “but it stands to reason. If you weren’t the best, you wouldn’t have been assigned to me.”

“I’m sure glad to see you don’t have an ego problem, Rupert,” said Tabor with a smile.

“Couldn’t you make it Sir Rupert?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Just when colleagues or the press are around?” persisted Shenoy. “I am descended from Sir Peter Medawar and R.K. Narayan.”

“We’ll see,” said Tabor.

“I’m exceptionally proud of my heritage,” continued Shenoy. He stared at Tabor. “Do you even know yours?”

“Beyond my parents, who didn’t accomplish much of anything, no,” was the answer. “But I don’t really care who did what way the hell back in my pedigree. I’d rather be judged on what I do.”

“So would I,” agreed Shenoy. “But I am proud of what came before me.”

“I’m more concerned with what comes next.”

“Ah!” said Shenoy, smiling. “You’re married?”

Tabor shook his head. “Not even close.”

“But you just said . . .”

“That I’m concerned with what comes next,” said Tabor. “What, not who. For example, what are you working on that someone with a lot of money thinks you may need protection? Will you be working here, or on some other planet?”

“Oh, we’ll be going afield,” answered Shenoy. “Not much to be discovered here.”

“There isn’t?”

Shenoy shook his head. “There are no sentient life forms native to Boriga IV,” he said. “That puts it pretty much beyond my field of interest or expertise.” He paused. “Well, my current field, anyway,” he amended.

“Yet here you are,” said Tabor.

“I was working for one of the governmental departments, which happens to be located here,” answered Shenoy. “I came here not to work, but to terminate my employment.”

“That’s kind of curious, Rupert,” said Tabor, as Shenoy tried not to wince at the use of his first name. “Usually it’s the employer who terminates a relationship.”

Shenoy grimaced. “It’s rather complicated. Officially I was working for a university here, but then the government decided I could accomplish more with a staff, a larger staff than the university could afford, so they became my co-employers.” A sudden smile. “And now they’re both my co-ex-employers.”

Tabor returned his smile. “You must have offended a lot of professors and bureaucrats if they both decided to fire you.”

“I just told you: I fired them.”

“I know, I know,” agreed Tabor. “But you can only fire a government if it’s willing to be fired. Otherwise, you could well wind up a permanent resident of one of their free facilities where you will never have to worry about security.”

“They would never incarcerate me,” answered Shenoy. “Nobody benefited from my two Prizes more than the government, and if I can unlock the current problem they stand to profit again. Of course, I’ll profit too,” he added, “but I already have more than enough money to last my lifetime. What I’m after is knowledge.”

“Knowledge can be a profitable commodity,” said Tabor. “What are you after, Rupert?”

Shenoy stared at him, as if deciding whether or not to confide in him. Finally he realized that of course Tabor would have to know, since he couldn’t provide protection from some other planet. He lowered his voice and leaned forward across the table.

“Have you ever heard of a world named Cthulhu?”

 

Caine’s Mutiny – Snippet 15

Caine’s Mutiny – Snippet 15

Chapter Twenty-Five

Beyond the Eastern Fringelands, BD+56 2966 Two (“Turkh’saar”)

Some of the cluster-trees were smoldering when Riordan followed de los Reyes out of the cave mouth. Twenty meters away, Fanny had the balance of the security team hunkered down behind some crates. They were scanning the southern half of the perimeter constantly.

The cave entry team had crossed half the distance to the crates when a patter of small, scree-flinging explosions erupted, paralleling their path ten meters to the west.

“Cover right!” Fanny shouted over the tactical channel. “The CO is under fire –”

“Belay that.” Duncan’s interruption was sharp. “That fire is intended for Puller.”

“Pretty weak effort,” Riordan remarked as he threw himself down behind the crate next to Fanny’s.

“They probably don’t know what they’re shooting at,” Solsohn explained. “Our passive track-back indicates that burst came from one of their light vehicles, almost four hundred meters away. They don’t have any units closer than that.”

Fanny scanned the solid walls of interconnected trees around them. “How the hell do they know where to shoot? Er…sir.”

“There’s a pipe-thin sight-line from their position to ours. My guess is they can’t see us, but they’ll have passive sensors, too, and Puller’s engines must stand out like flares on their thermals. I could use the laser I kept in PDF mode to intercept the rounds, Commodore.”

Riordan considered. “Negative, Major. Intercept requires active sensors. If they’ve got any missiles waiting for us, we might as well paint a bull’s eye on the hull.”

“Just trying to keep down the local body count, sir.”

“Acknowledged. But we’re going to need to take out that vehicle before we can cross the rest of the clearing.”

“I could maneuver closer –” began Karam.

“Negative. Don’t give them anything new to detect and aim at. Duncan, can you align the railgun back down that line-of-sight to the enemy vehicle?” Another patter of autocannon rounds tore up a strip of ground near the two helicopters, leading toward Puller.

“Already there, sir. We rotated Puller to take the enemy under fire if necessary.”

“Then I say three times: you are weapons-free. Engage the target.”

Puller, still hovering at the far edge of the clearing, rose up slightly. A sharp flash near its bow — so quick that Riordan wondered if he had actually seen or imagined it — was accompanied by the characteristically flat crash of a railgun discharge. An instant later, deep in the woods, there was a sharp explosion.

“Target neutralized,” Duncan reported.

Riordan rose, waving the others up. “Let’s go. Straight into the ventral bay. No rear security element. Move.”

Riordan knew that there were no Hkh’Rkh within visual range and that the only enemy which had weapons bearing was now a flaming wreck. But that did not reduce Riordan’s eagerness to get across the clearing and up Puller’s ramp. As soon as the last Guard was on board, he leaned toward his helmet’s audio pickup: “We’re aboard. Boost.” Then, to the troopers around him: “Hang on.”

They did — just in time to get slung about like rucksacks dangling from single straps.

Karam’s voice was calm, almost amused. “Where to, sir?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I get a report from Dr. Sleeman on enemy movement.”

There was a pause, during which Puller’s flight leveled off. Then: “Commodore, this doesn’t make sense.”

“Details, please, doctor.”

“Yes, sir. I’m piping it to your HUD. Faster that way.”

The view through the helmet visor greyed as it went into display mode. An aerial view of the same region blinked into existence, but the positions and activities of the Hkh’Rkh sensor contacts were radically different from before. Rather than reversing away from the clearing, the local vehicles, both light and heavy, were converging on it rapidly. Further to the right, or east, the Hkh’Rkh scouts who had apparently caught the scent of the fleeing humans were now overtaking them. Video feed from the quadrotors sent to that area showed that two light vehicles had swerved to join the pursuit.

“Typical,” Riordan murmured.

“What’s typical?” Karam asked. “That the Hkh’Rkh are crazy?”

“No: when faced with aggression, they don’t stop to assess. They just respond with even more aggression. I suspect their evolution hard-wired them for it.”

Solsohn’s voice was flat. “Tactically stupid, though.”

“I saw plenty of that in Indonesia,” Riordan agreed. “But in the long-run, it helps them, too. Anyone they fight knows that when a Warrior is coming at you, it is not a threat: it’s a promise, and either you or they will die in the process of their keeping it. If anyone’s morale is shaky, they give up — and the Hkh’Rkh spare them. They never kill or torture prisoners, even though they may have utter disdain for them. It’s part of their code.”

Sleeman sounded distracted. “A bit like the Mongols. Surrender, and your life goes on as before. Resist, and you’re exterminated.”

But Riordan’s attention was on the vehicles converging on the clearing they had left. Damn it: if they keep coming on at that pace, I won’t have any choice but to… “Karam, we need to get between the Hkh’Rkh chasers and the humans we have to extract.”

“Sir, if I do that, I can’t guarantee the Hkh’Rkh won’t eyeball us.”

“Acknowledged. But tell Wedge One to stay north of the objective. We need to keep them out of the fight.”

“Roger. Executing.”

The deck swayed as Puller began angling in a different direction.

Fanny stood. “What about us, sir?”

“Restock ammo and consumables and rest if you can. I don’t think the day — well, the night — is over just yet.”

* * *

Riordan arrived on the bridge just as Karam Tsaami was slowing Puller and easing her down closer to the trees. “One of those vehicles saw us, sir. Took a pot shot. Missed by a mile. Literally.”

“No target lock? No guidance systems?”

“It was cannon-fire. Not even laser targeting. Amateur hour.”

“Local militia,” Riordan corrected as he slid into his acceleration couch. “They’ve probably got hand-me-downs, and even the front-line Hkh’Rkh materiel was pretty rudimentary, by our standards.” He studied the regional overview. “But they’ve got lots of it, and it’s all over the place.”

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 13

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 13

Chapter 8

Agra, Red Fort

August, 1634

Her favorite garden was quiet but for the buzz of insects and the musical sounds of water over stone. Most of the court were at Mother’s tomb while the emperor oversaw some detail of its construction. His absence and the oppressive heat left the Red Fort unusually quiet. Jahanara was taking full advantage of that quiet, enjoying a mango julabmost, idly crunching the flavored ice between her teeth while pondering the next few lines of the poem she was composing. The scroll was ready before her, as were ink and brush, but she would commit nothing to paper until the verse was ready in her mind.

One of the harem eunuchs entered the garden and approached her small pavilion. As was proper, he knelt some distance away and waited to be recognized, sweating in the afternoon sun.

Taking pity on him, she handed the remainder of the julabmost to Atisheh, tipping it to indicate the Turkic guard maiden was free to drink it if she chose, and said simply, “Speak.”

“Begum Sahib, your brother’s wife, Nadira Begum Sahiba, inquires whether you are available to come to her sometime this afternoon?”

Sudden concern stabbed her. Nadira was pregnant with Dara’s first child. “Did she say why?” Jealousies ran deep in every harem, and poisoning a rival to end a pregnancy was far from unknown.

“It is some matter that Shehzada Dara Shikoh brought to her attention, Begum Sahib. Something between him and an amir,” a brief hesitation and licking of lips, “whose name escapes this witless servant.”

“Oh?”

The eunuch bent forward over his large belly, head nearly touching the grass. “Begum Sahib, I beg forgiveness; it is a worthless slave who forgets too much of his mistress’ business to ever warrant the trust placed in him.”

Jahanara nodded, understanding the subtext quite well — Nadira had not told the slave the name of her husband’s guest, clearly wanting to surprise her. Or the prince himself wanted to limit the ears that would hear the amir’s name.

Interest piqued, she spoke: “I will attend Nadira Begum once I am finished here. Take word to her and comfort in knowing that she will not hear of your lapse in memory from my lips.”

* * *

“You do me great honor, Shehzada Dara Shikoh,” Salim said, bowing low over rich carpets. It was not often a lowly amir found himself invited into the inner chambers of one of the Princes of the Blood. So private was the interview that only the carved sandstone of a jali separated the men from the prince’s harem. A rare honor indeed.

“It is I who is honored to have you as guest.” Dara waved a hand at a cushion beside him. “Please, take your ease and tell us of your travels and the fate of Father’s mission to the west and this city the Jesuits claim appeared with a snap of Shaitan’s fingers.”

A wordless sound of surprise escaped the jali at this announcement of Salim’s most recent adventures. Careful not to look too closely at the screen and therefore see the forbidden, Salim crossed to the offered seat and bowed deeply again. While they had been students together, that had been long ago, and he wanted to show the prince every respect. He decided it was better not to ask who was watching from the harem, assuming the prince would tell him if the prince wished him to know.

So close was the rich cushion to Dara Shikoh that Salim was suddenly very glad he’d had opportunity to bathe and perfume himself before the audience. He leaned on his injured arm as he sat, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound. He ignored the pain, hoping it had not been pulled open: far easier to replace a bit of blood than the cotton tunic purchased for this interview. Or worse yet, to spill blood on a cushion or carpet worth more than his yearly income.

The prince’s slaves entered and presented refreshments on trays of ornate plate of gold. “First, take refreshment before you tell us of your adventures and the fate of Baram Kahn.”

Salim protested, only to have the Dara direct a mischievous grin at the jali while speaking to him: “Salim, allow me to fill your belly before you fill our ears. It will serve to whet our appetite for your news.”

A throaty, musical note of feminine laughter issued from beyond the jali.

Dara ate little himself, but encouraged Salim to try some of the more exotic dishes.

Too nervous to take note of what he was eating, let alone enjoy the delicacies offered, Salim managed to eat a few sweets and was sipping a deliciously cool drink when a soft voice issued from beyond the jali: “The amir is hurt, brother.”

Dara stopped packing his pipe of opium and looked at Salim, brow arching. “You were injured in our pulu match?”

Mortified, Salim glanced at his arm. Sure enough, blood stained the sleeve. “It is nothing, Shehzada, a momentary disagreement between flesh and arrow.”

“Arrow?”

“Robbers on the road here, Shehzada.”

“A plague. Some hillmen never learn.”

Salim nodded. “They are a problem in every kingdom.”

The female voice returned: “Hillmen or robbers?”

Unsure if he should respond directly, Salim did not answer.

Another wicked grin from Dara. “My sister, the Begum Sahib, would have an answer, I think.”

Clearing his throat, Salim spoke. “Begum Sahib, not all robbers are hillmen, though it has been my experience that the more successful are.”

Another woman giggled, but the penetrating questions continued through it. “Then you were not attacked by hillmen, were you?”

“I thought them Bhils, from their lack of horses and skill at archery. I would not be before you if they had such knowledge.”

“And you are a proper hillman, are you not?”

Salim nodded. “My village is just this side of the Khyber Pass, Begum Sahib.”

“Pashtun?”

He nodded again. “Yusufzai, yes.” He glanced at Dara, found the young prince looking at him, eyes glittering.

“Our forebear passed through there after many great battles.”

“A similar tale is told in my family, Begum Sahib,” Salim answered, thoughtlessly.

The Princess of Princesses pounced on it. “Similar, only?”

“Oh, you’ve done it now!” Dara chortled.

“Stop it, Dara! I will not beg Father to have this man trampled by elephants simply for disagreeing with me on points of history!”

Dara laughed outright, then held his breath.

Salim prayed silently.

The moment stretched like the skin of a drum.

Softly, the Begum Sahib spoke again: “Though I might consider going to him if the amir does not answer promptly.”

 

Caine’s Mutiny – Snippet 14

Caine’s Mutiny – Snippet 14

Riordan rubbed his lower lip. “Well, let’s find out.” He approached the cage. The Hkh’Rkh did not move. Caine stared meaningfully at his symbols of rank, then some other markings on his armor’s midriff, which usually denoted lineage, status, other data of a personal nature.

Riordan inclined his head slowly, bending it further forward as he did so in order to best emulate the Hkh’Rkh gesture of respectful greeting among equals. “Honor,” he pronounced carefully in Hkhi.

The exosapient did not react. But that in itself was odd. The prisoner certainly spoke Hkhi, so he should have been shocked to hear it coming out of a human. “You know that word. And you’re not surprised.”

Still no response. Well, that was to be expected. This Hkh’Rkh was on the horns of a dilemma and was sticking with the best path for interviews or interrogations by an enemy: no response.

But Caine was facing his own dilemma. “I also suspect that you know English, or possibly du kannst die Deutsch,” he finished, shifting into the tongue that Yaargraukh had told him was the second most common human language studied by the Hkh’Rkh. No response to either. But the lack of response confirmed what Caine now perceived as a careful lack of all expression.

He’s in Patrijuridicate standard livery. He was probably in, or prepped, for the invasion. So he’s likely to know a little English. Maybe a lot. And it had better be the latter because we’re down to three minutes, at most.

Riordan sighed. “Normally, I’d like to take this slowly and carefully, to learn of your lineage and your Sire and Greatsires. But you are not talking and I don’t have a lot of time, so here’s how it’s going to go. I can’t afford to leave you here, and I’m pretty sure you know exactly what I’m saying. I’m sure because I was at the Convocation and know how many of your people speak one or more of our languages. So, to me, you are either a source of intelligence or an intelligence risk. And if I can’t tell which, I have about thirty seconds to tranq you and stick you in our brig. Of course, if your forces retake this cave first, that means you’ll die alongside us. Or, if you want to help both our peoples, you could talk to me. You have ten seconds to decide.”

Eyes still on the Hkh’Rkh, Caine chinned his commlink to Puller. “Any radio activity?” And then, hoping against hope at this last possible moment: “Any word from Yaargraukh?”

As Duncan started to detail the limited enemy radio chatter, the prisoner’s small black eyes almost ejected themselves from their leathery protective folds. “You — know Yaargraukh?” His English was heavily accented, but thoroughly understandable.

“I do. I was with him at the Convcoation. I was with him on Earth. He is a friend. He will know me.”

“What name are you known by, human?”

“Caine Riordan.”

The Hkh’Rkh’s eyes yanked back into their covers. “This name is an ill-omen. It is said you are an oathbreaker whose lies led to the deaths of many of our Warriors.”

“Is that what Yaargraukh says?”

“No.” The prisoner’s eyes returned hesitantly, the folds sagging around them: sadness, frustration, futility. “I believe he holds you in esteem. But he is almost alone in that opinion. And he is too shrewd to make public statements on your behalf. He would be branded a traitor.”

Riordan nodded. “I understand. What are you called?”

The Hkh’Rkh looked at the two human rifles. “I Ezzraamar Laarkhduur of the Moiety of Nys’maharn, senior Band-Leader of the Patrijuridicate and in present service to the Colonial Militia of Turkh’saar. Why do you ask?”

“To do you honor, no matter what you decide. Your ten seconds are up, Ezzraamar of the Moiety of Nys’maharn. Tell me: what do you want to do?”

“I want you to fire your tranquilizing rounds into me, but to leave me here.”

Riordan frowned. “Why?” Duncan was counting down the seconds to probable enemy contact with increasing tension in his voice. Caine tuned it out, focused on Ezzraamar’s answer.

“I cannot go with you. I do not know if you mean to harm or help us.”

“We are here to remove the humans on Turkh’saar.”

“Are they your raiders?”

Riordan shook his head. “Absolutely not. Not authorized by the Consolidated Terran Republic, at any rate. We are here to find and extract them. That is all.”

Ezzraamar’s head wagged slowly from side to side. “Puzzling, yet your uncertainty of their origins recalls Yaargraukh’s own confusion — and now mine — regarding their purpose here. What I have heard since becoming their prisoner is not consistent with the speech or motivations of raiders. That is why I am willing to speak with you at all.”

Duncan’s voice was becoming louder. “Commodore –”

“Hold position, Major. Fire if you must.” Riordan turned back toward Ezzraamar. “I have to leave in sixty seconds. Tell me why I should tranq you and leave you here.”

“Because if you take me with you, I could share some information, but then I will be utterly useless to you, and the other Warriors will not trust me once I have been your prisoner. But if you tranq me and leave me behind, I can explain that you found me just moments before our own forces arrived, and that you subdued me after your failed attempt to tranquilize the two Warriors you first encountered in this chamber. They will see that you are trying not to kill us. Hopefully, they will take me back to our capitol, Iarzut’thruk, to debrief me. I will be able to surreptitiously inform Yaargraukh that you are on Turkh’saar now. This is the best hope for both our peoples.”

Damn, this guy’s sharp. “I agree. But I could start trying to contact Yaargraukh right now, since –”

“No. Do not attempt that. There are political tensions of which you are unaware. Contact from you could easily be construed to mean that Yaargraukh is your confidential agent, and hence, a traitor. Contact must come from him. If it is permitted at all.”

Riordan knew that five minutes more would give him all the information he needed to massage the unfolding scenario into a better, maybe peaceful, outcome. But it was five minutes more than he had left: Duncan was shouting in his ear. “Just had to use the lasers on their scouts, sir. No helping it. Couldn’t see if they were packing missiles, or something else that might cripple Puller.”

“Acknowledged,” Caine replied. “We’re coming out. De los Reyes, start back and tell Somers to retrieve her creeper and unass this cave.” De los Reyes left, making disapproving sounds. Riordan switched his Co-Bro back over to feed from his magazine’s tranq stack. “Ezzraamar, these tranq rounds are a major risk. Three probably won’t put you out. Five or six could kill you.”

“Then I suggest you use four and wait to see if I fall over.”

“I would, except I don’t have the time to wait.”

Ezzraamar’s head swung from side to side. “Then fire five and we shall hope for the best — for both our sakes.”

Admiring the unflinching courage of the Hkh’Rkh, Riordan leveled the Co Bro at Ezzraamar’s unwounded leg and fired four rounds into it.

The exosapient staggered, blinked, slurred, “Yooo zhud fire mawr than faw…fawr. To be shurr…” He slumped over.

“You need to be sure of survival,” Riordan answered as the Hkh’Rkh’s eyes slowly retracted fully into their folds.

He turned and ran, shouting for Fanny to prepare for a leapfrog retreat back across the clearing to Puller and for Tsaami to be ready to boost as soon as they were in the ventral bay.

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 12

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 12

Chapter 7

Agra, Home of Jadu Das

August, 1634

The emperor’s palace of Red Fort, hard by the Yamuna, was a welcome sight after so many kos and so much time abroad.

Welcome, but still distant in both physical and figurative terms. Jadu’s roof was kos from Red Fort, and Salim didn’t dare approach until he knew more about how things stood at court. Two years, more or less, since he’d departed as part of Baram Khan’s entourage. Many things had changed. Even Red Fort had been modified: white marble superstructures were being added while older, plainer ones were torn down.

“Do you have a plan?” Jadu asked, following the line of his gaze.

Salim shook his head, resisted the urge to finger the fresh bandage on his arm. “Not yet, no.”

“You could just walk up to the gate and ask.”

Salim snorted. “I could, but Mian Mir instructed me to present my findings directly — and privately — to the imperial family, preferably to Dara Shikoh.”

“You move in august circles.”

“I did not, Mian Mir did.” Salim gave a crooked smile. “He merely asks the impossible of me.”

“Come, have something to drink while you consider how to ride the impossible to victory.” Dhanji Das’s elder brother offered his guest a cool glass of fruit juice and one stem of the water pipe.

Grinning, Salim turned from the roof’s edge and joined Jadu. Careful of his wound, he settled on one cushion and took the offered refreshment. “My thanks for your hospitality, Jadu Das. You and your family have more than paid your debt to me.”

“Not so, Salim.” Jadu waggled his head. “With respect, I will be the judge of when my debt to you is fully paid, and I say that day has yet to arrive.”

“You do your family honor, Jadu Das.”

Taking a pull from the pipe, Jadu exhaled, speaking through a cloud of fragrant smoke: “I do, but this talk of honor and debts does nothing to bring you closer to accomplishing your goals, my friend.”

“No, it does not.” Salim looked out across the city at Red Fort again.

“I know a few officials at court. I can inquire among them, see if perhaps there is a chance to see the emperor without all the world knowing of it, but I very much doubt it possible.” Jadu took another thoughtful pull at the pipe. “The emperor does occasionally hear petitions tied to the begging chain let down the east wall during his morning appearance before the people…”

“But?”

“But it is only occasionally, and while you would not have to present your information to some court functionary in order to go before the emperor, you would still have to present whatever you have in full view of the public.”

Salim nodded. “A route of last resort, then.”

“As you say, Salim.”

“What of Dara?”

“He is easier to approach than the emperor, but not by a great deal. Especially for those who have not gone through the emperor first.”

“Is he still in favor?”

“Oh, yes. Very much so. In fact, it is rumored that Shah Jahan has been too lenient with his eldest son, who spends too much time reading from books other than the Koran and playing chaugan.”

“Rumored?”

“Well, this much is true: Dara hasn’t held even a notional field command. This, despite being far older than Shah Jahan himself was upon being given his first command.”

“I see.”

“As does the rest of the court.”

Salim glanced at Jadu. “But not Shah Jahan?”

A shrug. “I do not claim to know the mind of the emperor, but it is widely known that his advisors are rarely heeded where his children are concerned.”

“An understandable result of his own failed rebellion.” It was well known that Shah Jahan felt that Jahangir had been turned against him by Nur Jahan and a coterie of advisors, so it was understandable that he ignored his own advisors on family matters.

Jadu shook his head and gently corrected his guest: “I believe there is more to it than the war of succession and the events surrounding the deaths of all the possible rivals to his claim.”

Salim slowly nodded, considering. Shah Jahan’s brothers and all of their sons — his own nephews — had been executed by Asaf Khan, another kinsman. Most everyone agreed the executions were on Shah Jahan’s orders, but who would say anything about it, one way or another?

And, judging from all Salim had been able to find in Grantville’s libraries, Mian Mir was right: those killings placed a shadow on the dynasty that was never successfully removed. That shadow was used to cloak fratricide in an aura of legitimacy, weakening the dynasty and ultimately leading to British rule.

“A thought occurs, Salim.”

“Oh?”

“I have a kinsman who provides betel to the harem. Jahanara Begum has recently been given full responsibility for the harem’s finances. Perhaps I can get you into Red Fort with his party…”

“It seems a good idea, but the requirements of purdah will still force me to speak through some intermediary, and that one no closer to Dara or the emperor.”

“True…” Jadu sucked thoughtfully on the pipe.

They sat in companionable silence for some time, smoking and eating.

An elephant’s trumpeting reached Salim’s ears. The sound led him, through roundabout paths, to what he must do.

Agra, Red Fort, The Harem

Sighing in satisfaction, Nur Jahan slowly closed the tiny glass valve and turned the heat down under the flask of concentrate. The new perfume would be ready soon and, if she was correct in her calculations, would out-last and linger on the body far longer than any of her previous concoctions.

Things had settled into a comfortable pattern in the months since she’d returned to court, allowing her time to pursue her hobbies and slowly, carefully extend her reach through the court.

She had reason to be satisfied on multiple levels: the perfume would improve her already-excellent reputation for such creations, and serve to further lull her adversaries into complacency. Men, and to a lesser extent, eunuchs, were rather easy to mislead into boredom when reports reach their ears of activities they considered unmanly. Boredom lead to disregard for the person involved in such pursuits, which was exactly where Nur wished to remain, for the moment.

Gargi, her favorite advisor, entered.

“My lady?”

Nur turned from the apparatus, “Yes?”

“Some news, from Lahore, my lady,” Gargi said, tapping a packet held in her right hand.

Important, then.

“For later. Come, let us play some chess while I wait for this,” she waved at the flask, “to cool.”

“Yes, my lady.”

They sat, Gargi more slowly than her mistress. She didn’t have the benefit of Nur’s many years of training to keep the body supple.

Gargi took the first move, as was their habit. They played for some time, quiet conversation full of banalities intended to erode the patience of any listeners. Eventually, a faint snore from beyond the jali rewarded their patient game. The spy assigned to watch them had difficulty keeping awake in the heat of the day.

Nur smiled, held out her hand.

Gargi handed the packet over.

Nur read through the dispatches quickly, filing them between hennaed toes: the most important messages requiring responses went between the largest toe of her right foot and its delicately decorated neighbor, the rest in descending order of importance. On the left, items of news that did not require a response, in the same order of precedence. There were far more messages finding a place between her left toes than her right these last few years, something she hoped to rectify in the coming days. The last missive was in a hand she did not immediately recognize, requiring a frustrating moment to place.

She must have shown some of her discontent, because Gargi quietly asked, “Mistress?”

Nur Jahan held up the missive. “Rehan Usmani, one of my clients, writes from Surat to tell me Baram Khan is dead.”

“Some disease of the Europeans?”

She shook her head. “Poison, apparently.”

“Not entirely unexpected. Baram Khan was not the most circumspect of men.”

“He had his uses.”

“Does it say where he was? Did he find the fabled city the Jesuits spoke of?”

“Yes, Rehan claims they did, and that there are many things he needs to tell me of what was discovered there. He desires an audience as soon as he arrives from Surat.” She held the message up. “As this was sent to Lahore first, we are unlikely to have an opportunity to question him for another month or so.”

“And when he does arrive,” Gargi waved at the jali where the spy continued to snore, “meeting in private will be nearly impossible.”

“Yes.” Nur re-read the next few lines, parsing the message laid out between the lines of carefully adequate calligraphy. “He also warns that Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz departed the diplomatic party without leave. He suspects the amir of working against me, and expresses concern the man will return to court with inflammatory news that could do my position harm.”

“I do not recognize the name of this amir. Why should one such as he work against you?”

“Another of Mian Mir’s students, Salim was ever one of his favorites. And, since my fall from Mian Mir’s good graces during Shah Jahan’s rebellion, I’m sure he’s had his head filled with poison against me.”

“But what could the man carry that might be a threat to you?”

Nur cocked her head to one side. “Rehan perhaps misreads opportunity as threat.”

“Better to kill this amir and forego the risk, then,” Gargi said, louder than she should have.

Nur cast the hem of her sari over her feet, concealing the papers as the spy’s disoriented snort warned them he was awake.

The women resumed their small talk over the chessboard.

Nur Jahan, most beloved widow of Jahangir, considered her opponent as she hounded Gargi’s king across the chess board. Poor Gargi, her advice has become so much more conservative since my forced retirement. Still, she may be correct in this. Perhaps I should tell Aurangzeb my news when next we meet. Such information, promptly delivered, should serve to increase my credibility as an ally, and costs me nothing but the breath to speak the words.

Agra, Pulu Grounds

I simply hate losing!

Dara’s feelings on the state of play proved unhelpful as the talented new addition to Mohammed Khan’s team cracked the ball in a perfectly timed pass. The wooden ball slipped between two of Dara’s teammates, rolling between the galloping horses of the two captains.

Keeping clear of the other rider’s line, Dara leaned over in his saddle, tried to intercept with his mallet.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Mohammed bounced the wooden ball into the air and over the prince’s mallet. Dara stretched in a desperate attempt to deflect it, but Mohammed caught the ball on his stick again, keeping it out of Dara’s reach.

Mohammed put heels to horse, the ball rolling ahead.

Having slowed to accommodate Dara’s lunge from the saddle, his horse lost ground on the young noble’s. Dara righted himself and set out in pursuit, quickly making up ground. He was almost in reach of the nobleman when Mohammed wound up and cracked a shot between the raised uprights.

Subdued applause came from the sidelines.

No one wants to be seen applauding another of the prince’s failures, Dara thought bitterly, turning his horse and slowing to a walk. His mount needed time to cool and the teams had to re-set.

The new player, the one who had made such an excellent pass, sidled up beside him and spoke. “Shehzada Dara Shikoh, it is good to see you well.”

Dara looked at the horseman, who had covered the lower half of his face to keep the dust and turf off and said, “Do I know you?”

A polite bow of the head. “We were once students together.”

“Oh? Did you school me on the pulu grounds before?” Dara asked, still fuming over conceding the point.

The other man bowed deeper in his saddle and pulled down the end of his turban to show his face. “No, Shehzada Dara Shikoh, I was referring to our study under Mian Mir when you were an honored guest of your grandfather, Jahangir.”

Dara checked his horse’s reins. “Salim! How are you, old friend!?”

Salim had been an older student of Mian Mir’s, one of his inner circle of followers. He had proven kind, respectful, and easy to talk to during the long years Dara and his brother had been held in Jahangir’s court, hostages against another rebellion from Father.

“I am well, Shehzada.” Salim’s grass-green eyes flicked to the courtiers lining the edge of the pitch. “I have news,” he said. “News I fear to impart to any but you.”

Dara, made cautious by the seriousness of Salim’s tone, set his mount in motion again. Still trying to recover from the surprise, he muttered, “I never understood why you accompanied Baram Khan.”

Baram had been sent from the court in disgrace; too powerful to execute, too weak to withstand Father’s ire for his transgression and still remain at court. Instead he’d been sent to Europe to investigate rumors of a town said to have sprung, full of wonders, from the earth in a single night.

Salim, covering his face again, said simply, “Mian Mir asked it of me.”

“I see.”

Dara noticed hoofbeats approaching and turned his head to see Mohammed riding up. Quietly, he said, “I shall make arrangements for you to be brought before me privately. My chief eunuch will know to look for you.” He considered a moment. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Thank you, Shehzada,” Salim said as Mohammed, flushed with success, rode between them both.

Dara, covering for the conversation, mock-scowled and raised his voice: “Thank me by failing to make such passes as that last one! What’s more, you say you haven’t played at pulu in years? You make rough sport of my poor skills!”

Their horses’ ears flicked as Salim chuckled.

Mohammed shot Salim a look that Dara read quite easily: You had better not be pouring salt on the prince’s wounded pride.

To save Salim from the courtier’s ire, Dara spoke to Mohammed, “Well done! I believe the wager was five horses of your choosing from my stables?”

Mohammed revealed his face and bowed in the saddle, “Shehzada, you are too kind! While that was the wager, you are perhaps a bit early in conceding defeat. The last –” The time-keeper’s horn, sounding much like an elephant’s angry trumpet, cut across Mohammed’s words.

Over the nobleman’s shoulder, Dara saw Salim give a barely perceptible nod before turning to ride from the field.

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 11

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 11

“I will thank him upon my arrival in Agra and tell him how faithful his brother is to the promises he has made. Further, I will be sure to repay what is given.”

“Repayment is not necessary,” Dhanji grinned, “and be careful how much you offer a man before learning how things stand: horses cost very dear this season. We have had much of famine and disease since you were sent to accompany Baram Khan. Trade continues, but food and fodder are scarce.”

“The city did seem quiet.”

“The pestilence took a great many people, especially those weakened by hunger, of which there were far too many. Many of the Europeans died, unprepared for the sickness here. Nearly all of the English, in fact.”

“How many?”

“Of the twenty-one who were here when you left, four remain among the living.”

Salim shook his head in shocked sympathy. “Such mortality?”

“Indeed! And yet, every month sees more English, Dutch, and Portuguese arrive on our shores, each certain they will make their fortune.”

“And do they?”

“While the court remains fascinated with their baubles, the Europeans make excellent profit.”

“Baubles?”

“The bribes they offer are hardly worthy of the name, but it seems the residents of the emperor’s harem are endlessly fascinated with seeing themselves in mirrors.”

Salim snorted. “With the great beauties it is said that Shah Jahan surrounds himself with, I understand the appeal of such entertainments.” He thought a moment, asked for confirmation: “Which of the Europeans are prospering most?”

“The English and Dutch do best, though the Portuguese are recently returned to the good graces of the Court.”

God is Good! That is good news! I doubted anyone at court would even see me after being associated with Baram Khan’s stink. Aloud, he asked, “How did they manage that?”

Shah Jahan had, as one of his first acts after ascending the throne, ordered the Portuguese punished for failing to render him aid during his earlier rebellion.

“It seems even Shah Jahan’s anger has an end.” Dhanji shrugged. “I do not know what was agreed to, or how, but everyone knows the Jesuits were involved.”

“Interesting…” Salim said, running fingers through his beard.

“I doubt my news is as interesting as the adventures you’ve had, and the tales you might tell,” Dhanji prompted.

Salim grinned. “I am a horrible guest, to ask so many questions without offering news, as you invited me here to do. I suppose it is best to start at the beginning…”

Route from Surat to Agra

The stream, swollen with monsoon rain, presented less of a challenge than climbing the far bank, an unstable slope of dark, wet earth. Salim stood in the stirrups as his recently-purchased and exceedingly expensive Arab warmblood slipped sideways half-way up the bank.

Something pointed made a dangerous whistling as it hummed through the space he’d just left, cutting off all thought of cursing his as-yet-unnamed horse.

Salim heard the snap of more bowstrings as he heeled his mount up the bank. Powerful hindquarters bunched, released, sending mount and rider surging over the lip of the ravine and out of the path of the arrows.

Two men rushed from the tree line with spears, another emerging from the wood behind, urging them to the attack.

His horse’s scrambling leap had landed them perpendicular to the charging men. He added their position to the tally of the many things he would have to thank the Almighty for when next he had opportunity to face Mecca.

For now, though, the sword. It hissed from sheath and to hand.

His horse, shying from the shouting men, curvetted. Samir leaned sideways, using the mount’s momentum to bring his curved Persian steel sweeping across in a cut that connected with one of the spear-shafts. The crude iron head flew free and over Salim’s shoulder, surprising Salim almost as much as the wielder, who stood staring at the cloven wood stump just above his hand. From the youth’s open-mouthed expression, he was clearly imagining what might have been had the sword struck below where he held it.

The other spear-bearer bored in and stabbed. The blade swept past Salim’s nose by a hand’s breadth.

While the first man stared at his severed spear, Salim’s still-spinning horse clipped his companion with a hoof, folding him with a grunt that ended in a roll down the riverbank.

Mindful of the target he now presented to the archers on the opposite bank, Salim spurred the Arab into flight. He angled away from the track and any additional brigands who might be lying in wait.

He heard the horseman pound into pursuit behind him.

An arrow flew past from the far shore, then another. A third traced a hot red line across his forearm, making him drop the reins. Thanks be to the Almighty, the horse had drawn his own conclusions about where safety lay and ran flat out through the narrow opening among the trees.

Out of sight of the archers, Salim spared a glance for his wound. It would keep. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, he retrieved the dropped rein and glanced behind.

On an inferior mount, the horseman had fallen behind in Salim’s short gallop to cover. Now, however, the tight confines of the trail favored the shorter horse and the rider with more intimate knowledge of the land.

At least the other wouldn’t be able to ride up alongside to strike.

There being nothing for it but to ride, Salim did just that. Long moments passed, the blowing of his horse and the pounding of hoofbeats beneath and behind his only company.

With a suddenness that hurt the eyes, the pursuit exploded from the wood and into bright sunlight. He felt his mount lengthen stride and gain speed, hoping it could see better than he could. Knowing he was gaining distance, Salim kept his face in the mane, hoping to present as small a target as possible in case his pursuer had a horse-bow.

Eyes adjusted, he looked back and saw the other rider was letting his horse slow, giving up the pursuit in a storm of curses.

Bandits, then.

Good. For a moment he’d worried that — despite all the measures he’d taken to avoid it — that someone knew of his return and sought to kill him before what he carried could be explained.

Salim let his mount slow to a walk once he was certain the chase was ended. Remaining in the saddle, he spent some time dressing his wound and eating some of the food he’d purchased at the last caravanserai.

Many kos remained between him and his destination. Checking the straps of his saddlebags, Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz rode on, contemplating suitable names for the horse.

 

Caine’s Mutiny – Snippet 13

Caine’s Mutiny – Snippet 13

“Somers,” Riordan said, “sacrifice a creeper. Keep the other in overwatch. De los Reyes, we’ll be going in low and close.”

“Yes, sir,” they answered in unison as the Hkh’Rkh leaned out and blasted away again. Apparently at nothing.

In his HUD, Riordan watched the newest creeper skitter forward. The other fanned out to the left, courting the shadows and moving slowly, ultimately achieving a flanking view of the large exosapient, who had just finished reloading his weapon.

The other creeper reached the blind side of the corner, just two meters closer to it than Riordan and Martell.

Somers’s voice was sharp. “I’m in position.”

“Go.”

The flanking creeper emitted a short chirp, skittered back. The Hkh’Rkh started, swung its weapon uncertainly in that direction — just as the other creeper scuttled around the corner.

As it rounded the bend, its feed zoomed in on the Hkh’Rkh’s digitigrade left leg, painted brief cross-hairs on the joint most analogous to the ankle. The exosapient became aware of the closer creeper, swung his weapon down sharply —

Less than a meter away, the creeper launched itself with all limbs. Its appendages stretched out, grabbed hold, and tugged its body tight against the boot-greave of the exosapient.

It was the other creepercam which showed its small mechanical twin explode, taking the Hkh’Rkh’s leg out from under it, the large being slumping abruptly into the sheltering wall.

“Go,” muttered Caine.

He and Martell swept around the corner. Caine went wide and low, Martell tucked close and kept his weapon high.

“Stop!” Caine yelled in Hkhi. “Stop now!”

The Hkh’Rkh, holding his ruined joint with one gore-drenched hand, was so surprised that the scattergun slipped in his grip; he grabbed after it, started bringing it up —

Probably just reflex, Caine thought bitterly. But if I’m wrong —

He squeezed the trigger of his Co Bro the same moment that Martell did.

At two meters range, two five-round bursts of eight millimeter Co Bro penetrators were the equivalent of industrial mining lasers going through a plywood sheet. The Hkh’Rkh’s armor was peppered with holes, none particularly big. Even the exit wounds were not especially gruesome; they only varied from the entry wounds because the smart rounds knew when to start allowing flanges to widen out from their tails, thereby increasing drag and imparting more energy to the target.

The Hkh’Rkh fell back against the covering wall, already limp, and then slumped over, leaving a dull mauve smear behind him.

Caine rotated, swept his weapon across the back of the cave, searching for what the first Hkh’Rkh had been threatening with his assault rifle.

And discovered that it was, improbably, another Hkh’Rkh, crouched in a cage just large enough for him to stand in. What the hell –?

Martell came up alongside him, saw the imprisoned local. “Sir, are we clear? Or not?”

“That, Martell, is an excellent question.” Riordan panned his helmet cam slowly. “Are the rest of you seeing this?” There were murmured affirmatives.

Martell stepped closer. “Were they going to shoot him, sir?”

Riordan swept the room with his goggles at max gain. “Somers, does your last creeper show anything in here with us?”

“No, sir. I’ve had it scoot around the perimeter. Except for that caged bugbear, ye’re clear.”

“Understood. Corporal, you head back to where to can regain LoS to Sergeant Fanny.”

“But, sir –”

“Martell, you follow her far enough so that you and she can still read each other and you’ve either got LoS to me, or can shout and be heard.”

“Got it, sir.”

De los Reyes came alongside Caine as Martell departed. “And me, sir?”

“You keep your rifle trained on this Hkh’Rkh. Semiautomatic, expander rounds, go for a leg if you feel you can do so safely. I need a prisoner, not a corpse.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do what I can.” Bernardo de los Reyes did not sound enthusiastically committed to his new assignment.

Riordan turned toward him, raised his faceplate. “Corporal, if you can’t curb your animosity and follow your orders to the letter, I will have your stripes in my hand and your ass in hack. Within the hour.”

De los Reyes’s eyes opened a little wider. He nodded. “Sir, yes, sir. I will only shoot to subdue. Unless you are in imminent mortal danger, sir.”

“Excellent.” Riordan stepped closer to the cage. The Hkh’Rkh’s small, black-pebble eyes followed him warily, but he did not move. Caine studied the dimensions of the cage: probably can’t shift position even if he wanted to.

Studying the Hkh’Rkh further, he was struck by another difference: the exosapient’s apparel. It was different from those of the two that had been killed; it looked more finished, as if it was part of a uniform. A closer look yielded more evidence for that conjecture: there were insignias of rank on his shoulders, where epaulets would be on a human uniform. Riordan recognized the rank; he was a senior band-leader. Roughly equal to a sergeant, but with over-tones of being both a warrant-officer and a lieutenant-in-training.

But the wide-legged shorts that were the typical Hkh’Rkh lower garment were not of the same manufacture. Wait; no, they were, but they had been damaged, torn.

No: shot. There were two bullet-holes near the cuff. Crouching down, Riordan inspected that leg: it was still wrapped. One wound, mostly healed, was uncovered. Caine stared at it, quickly glanced up at the Hkh’Rkh.

Surprised, it flinched away its eyes, unsuccessfully trying to conceal its reciprocal interest.

Caine stood slowly, toggled the tactical channel, hoped the relay through Martell and Somers was working. “Puller, can you read me?”

“Aye, sir,” Duncan’s voice answered, “and glad you’re on the horn. You don’t have a lot of time left. The Hkh’Rkh are closing in on your position. Not a lot of them, but if we want to keep this bloodless –”

“We’re past that. I don’t know if my Hkhi was incomprehensible, they were worried about being tricked, or they just didn’t give a damn. But I blew our chances to keep this from going sideways. I’ve got two dead in here and…are you seeing this?”

“Yes, sir,” Sleeman replied. “We’ve seen high-speed playback of the whole encounter. There’s nothing you could have done, sir.”

“That’s not my focus, now. Run the playback from the creepercams and time it. How long do you estimate the two Hkh’Rkh scouts were in this rearmost chamber before we arrived?”

There was a pause. “Maybe twenty seconds, sir. But I repeat, don’t blame yourself –”

“Doctor, I’m not concerned with that right now. Twenty seconds. They must have found him here.”

“Stands to reason,” Karam said in the background.

Riordan scanned the area around the cage, discovered a drinking vessel, a honeypot, some food that was definitely not of human origin. He studied the cage more closely. It had been fashioned from thick wooden shafts, and the door was secured with a distinctly human padlock of massive proportions. An old one, Riordan realized, and upon leaning closer to it, discovered that the manufacturer’s information was written in Cyrillic.

Riordan leaned away. “He wasn’t being threatened.”

“Then why did they level a gun at him?” Somers asked.

“They weren’t aiming at him. They were trying to shoot off the lock.”

De los Reyes sounded skeptical. “Sir, do you really think it would take them that long just to shoot a lock?”

“I do, Corporal. Look at the size of that cage. He couldn’t get out of their field of fire. He probably had to fold himself over like a contortionist to be safe. At which point, we enter the picture.”

Duncan’s voice was eager. “So you think he was their — the humans’ — prisoner?”

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 10

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 10

Chapter 6

Surat

July, 1634

The steady rain pounding the decks did nothing to cool the heated discussion the captain of the Graça de São João was having with one of Surat’s many tax farmers as Salim climbed on deck.

Thankfully, neither man paid him any attention. A man with just a few parcels was not worthy of attention from grasping tax officials and he’d long since paid his passage to the captain.

Salim sent a wave the first mate’s way and walked from the ship.

Despite the rain, the docks were active, slaves and their overseers managing the loading and unloading of several vessels. All but the Graça de São João were from ports on the Indian Ocean, most here to trade in horses, indigo, spices, saltpeter, and slaves. One ship, Mughal-built, was returning from Hajj, pilgrims forming a knot of the faithful as they navigated the waterfront.

Happy to be ashore, Salim took a deep breath. Even through the rain, the scent of spices from East Africa and Southern India warred with the odors of river, tar and tide. While not from Gujurat, it was still a homecoming of sorts. He had done much in Gujurat in the first years he’d come down from the Khyber. It was a walk of a few minutes to the English factory complex.

Wishing to avoid any entanglements with people who might not remember him fondly, Salim found a sheltered spot to observe the gate. It was nearly sunset when he saw the man he’d been waiting for.

“Dhanji Das!” he called, angling to intercept the painfully thin men bearing Dhanji’s litter.

A flick of the fly-whisk he held indicated Dhanji had heard him, but the heavyset man did not order his bearers to stop, probably thinking Salim some kind of petitioner.

Which I suppose I am, all things considered.

He easily overtook the party, spoke from beside the lead bearer, “Dhanji Das, I am Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz.”

“Salim?”

“Salim, friend to your brother, Jadu, in Ahmedabad. He introduced us four years ago –”

Dhanji spoke over him, waving the whisk at an invisible fly. “I’m afraid I don’t know –”

“– after I saved him from slavery or death,” Salim finished. The Das family business took advantage of the Englishmen’s disdain for learning the local languages: one cousin would range ahead of an English Company trader — whose translator was invariably another cousin — and buy up all the indigo or textiles for sale in a given market, then make a tidy profit selling it at a mark-up to the English. It was on one such trip that bandits had come across Jadu Das with a hundred fardles of indigo he planned to sell to the English. They’d come across him, beat him senseless, and staked him out to die.

At the time, Salim had been with a band hired by the governor of Gujurat to put a stop to the depredations of that very group of bandits. Setting upon them at night, the governor’s men had killed the bandits to a man.

After the skirmish, most of the governor’s men had thought to take Jadu’s goods for themselves and leave him staked where he was. Salim had forbidden it. A blood-drenched argument had ensued.

Jadu knew what was owed. It remained to be seen whether Dhanji did.

“Oh, that Salim!” Dhanji said, rapping ringed fingers against the litter frame to bring his bearers to a stop. “We thought you dead on foreign shores!”

You hoped it was so, that you might be free of obligation. Stifling the urge to say the words out loud, Salim said, “And yet here I stand.”

A smile. “Yes, yes indeed.”

“God is merciful.”

Hindu, Dhanji’s response was a graceful nod. A silence settled.

Irritated that he had to remind Das exactly how much was owed, Salim tried again: “I trust trade with the English proceeds without difficulty?”

A twist of fleshy lips. “It does, but let us not talk of such things here: please, come to my home. I will feed your belly while you fill my head with news of distant goings-on.”

Salim checked the angle of the sun, just peeking from beneath the clouds. Sometime remained before Maghrib. “How can I refuse such generosity? It will be my pleasure.”

They spoke of inconsequential things on the way to Dhanji’s home. A large building, white-washed and thick-walled to keep the heat at bay, Salim complemented his host on it.

A smile shone through the Gurjurati’s beard as he invited Salim to join him for fruit and refreshment.

“I thank you. I must pray first, however.”

“Of course.”

Dhanji provided him water to cleanse himself and privacy for the performance of Maghrib.

Refreshed, Salim rejoined his host.

“What news of the court, Dhanji Das?” Salim asked, plucking a date from the platter and biting into it.

“Word is slow to reach us here in Surat, but the emperor remains at Agra.”

“Still?”

Dhanji nodded. “Jadu tells me the emperor personally oversees the building of Mumtaz Mahal’s tomb. It is an astounding project.”

“For an astounding love,” Salim said, thinking of the “postcard” in his pack. He shook his head, “Jadu is in Agra, then?”

“Yes, he assists the English factors there.”

“Good news, then. Surely he prospers.”

Dhanji smiled and thumped his belly. “He grows fat, like me.”

“I wonder, have you heard any word of Mian Mir?”

“In fact, I have: Mian Mir fell ill shortly after you departed for that strange place — what was it called?”

“Grantville.”

“Grantville. An odd name…” Dhanji said, clearly hopeful of some intelligence that might earn out.

“Yes, it is. You were speaking of Mian Mir?”

“Sorry, yes. He fell ill, and while he is better now, he has yet to recover his full strength.”

“Is he still at Lahore?”

“Yes. There is much doubt he will leave his residence again before he passes from this world.”

“You seem concerned.”

Dhanji shrugged, “Guru Mian Mir is a friend to all good men, regardless of faith. Few are the Hindus who do not know who it is who has stayed the hand of the conservatives at court,” Dhanji said.

Salim nodded, relieved. Mian Mir’s agenda of religious tolerance was not always appreciated, even among Hindus, many of whom still saw Islam as the religion of the invader. Encouraged enough to bring the subject back to his purpose, Salim asked, “And your brother, did he tell you anything regarding me?”

“He instructed me to render you any assistance you might need, whenever you might ask for it.”

Salim nodded. “I do not need much: money for a mount and enough supplies to get to Agra.”

“I have sufficient funds set aside for your needs.”